


i think im dying (around you)

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, mostly angst bitch, narrated in first and second person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I'm not melodramatic.My heart feels too full, too fragile for this love that’s a needle to the hopeful balloon.(I should take the needle and prick it before it rises too far above the horizon)I'm sorry.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	i think im dying (around you)

I think I’ve fallen for you.

I feel my breath stutter when you smile that smile, that one that contains the brightness and ferocity of dancing fires. I want to be the one who makes that smile appear, to push tired fingers through your dark hair, brush dry lips against your forehead. 

I see the way you hide your bright face behind your hand when your phone dings and light up with the same sender with a single heart emoji to the end of their name. I’m supposed to feel happy for you. I know. But I can’t. I hide shaking hands behind my back, because you aren’t here to hold them.

I remember the small moments, the ones where you’d fallen right to sleep on my couch, your dark curls splayed out across the expanse of the fabric of the armrest, hand hanging down to brush the floor, light breaths ghosting from your parted lips as your chest rose and fell in a soft symphony. I'd squat beside you, push wild strands of your hair away from your forehead with the heel of my palm. I wanted oh so badly to kiss you right then, a small peck against your lips, but I respected you too much.

(I'm not good enough for you anyway)

I know you don’t know my heart beats erratically only for you. You laugh and jostle with me on our Sunday nights, even when I freeze when you place a small hand on my chest, or when my breath catches as you circle hands around my waist. I hate when you reduce me to a flustered wreck without even intending to, and my heart throbs painfully at your smiles as you tilt your head up, your physical affection for me undoubtedly, clearly, platonic and nothing more. (even if I oh so want it to be)

I’ll watch from the distance as you tangle with your future significant other, look away when they pull you in for something more, something I don’t think I can ever give to you. Maybe it’s for the better, that it’s not me and never will be, but that doesn’t fill the void that gapes and tugs at me with its unyielding gravitational force. 

I think I love you. It’s to be my eventual demise. 

I don’t think you remember that I gave you the bandana that you so cherish to this day. I gave it to you when we were little, hopping over cracks in the pavement. The long white material was way too long, but we’d tied it around your head like a fucking pirate. You kept the bandana on even when we grew older, even as it frayed at the edges and greyed. You don’t wear the bandana anymore. 

If you don’t want the bandana, give me the bandana. I want it, even if you don’t. I want to bury my face in the rough material, smell your scent. I'm obsessed with you. Not in a weird stalkerish way. In a warped, nearly beautiful way. 

I want to lace and interlock fingers with you, pull you in to clutch and fist at your clothing, bury my nose into the dip of your collarbone. I want to breath beside you, breath with you. I want to kiss you hard, hard enough for skin to bruise. I want too much, none of which both of us are strong enough for, brave enough for. Sometimes beside your sleeping body that washes with shallow breaths, I want to hold you tight, hug you securely, mold to you so that we’re pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly with each other, perfectly in sync. It’s almost as though I want to be you physically. Crawl into your skin. My heart feels too full, too fragile for this love that’s a needle to the hopeful balloon. 

(I should take the needle and prick it before it rises too far above the horizon)

I refuse to scream for you, refuse to cry for you, even when I shut my door and the tears drip down my jawline. I wear the mask, that mask you know so much better than my own face. You’ve requested to look at my face before. I refused. I didn’t want you to see how vulnerable I am inside. I want you to be happy more than my relationship with you. 

And that’s why, for the last time I’m dancing with you. The last Sunday night hangout, the last one for ages, because I'm moving to a faraway city. I sense the sadness you withhold behind large eyes and smirking lips as I swing you playfully around to the beat of a waltz. “Pleasure,” you say, laughing lightly as you take my teasingly outstretched hand in an invite to the makeshift dancefloor. I grip your waist securely and you place your hand on my shoulder. My fingers tingle with sparks as we hold palms together. The dance turns from the initial playful way to one that’s somewhat serious, even as I stumble over my feet and you sway nimble hips. “you traded height for your agility,” you snicker, leaning your head on my chest as the dance turns softer, less chaotic. I blink away tears that spring out oh so suddenly, the fist on your hip tensing. You don’t notice. You never were an attentive person. 

I lead the dance, step side to side, motions gradual and rocking. I look down, and your eyes were shut, eyelashes fluttering just slightly enough for me to know that you’re still awake. You looked so pretty, under the warm lights and the shadows that cast themselves over you. You’re such a bright star that my heart breaks in the glaring light. 

“Will you visit?” is what comes out next from your mouth, unintentionally small even in the presence of soft music. 

“I don’t know.” My throat is hoarse. 

“Please do.” 

I don’t think I will. I can’t stand being in the same room as you. I don’t answer. I choke on air.

“I’ll _miss_ you, idiot. Please come back sometime.” You look up at me, hazel eyes wide, lips parted. 

You look beautiful. I don’t think I was thinking clearly when I kissed you right under the shadowy lights. 

You push me away, breathing rapid, soft, a hand soft on my pecs. “You— I—” 

“I’m sorry,” I try, but it grates out of my throat and I choke on it. I drop your hand from mine, turn away, shut my eyes in an effort to stop the tears. 

“You thought of me like this the whole time?” you ask, and there’s no repulsion, but there’s _pity_. I nod jerkily, force myself to walk away from you.

You snag my hand before I can. I turn back, and you look so surprised, like I’ve been remotely secretive with every action I take in your presence. Like I said, you were a little oblivious. 

“You pity me.” I say. “You love them.” (You don’t love me.)

You start to speak, but retract. You look so unsure. I feel so unsure. I feel so unsteady on my feet. I hate myself for falling for you, falling for a childhood friend who loves someone else. I think I'm suffocating. 

“I’m _so sorry_ ,” and there’s genuine sorrow in your voice. I hate you. (I can’t hate you)

“Please let go of me.” my voice is broken, small, so small it can be dismissed if you weren’t so focused on my face. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. (I don’t need pity)

“Please let go of me.” I shake under your grip, and I think I cry. 

You don’t let go. You pull me in as I sob and drop my head forward, grip so tightly that your skin under my hand comes off white. My back is pressed against your front. I want to break free. But I don’t. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of hiding. I turn and grip your shirt, hiking it up as the material pools in my fist. I sense how helpless you are, and I know I should let you leave. I don’t want you to leave. 

“I’m sorry,” I sob over and over. “I’m sorry.” I feel your hesitant hands ghost my back, press against it. (I'm sorry)

I think I pass out sobbing. I wake up, and you’re gone. I hate you. (I love you so much)

I grope for my phone. There’s just a single text message from you. ‘I’m so sorry’.

I glance around the empty room. I pull the luggage. I want to get the fuck out of this place. The room crawls with memories too painful, too swallowing. It hurts. (you smile and laugh as we wrestle on the sofa)

I want to cry. I wish I didn’t love you so much.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I whisper to myself. I hate how it breaks. 

White material catches my eye. It’s the bandana. You left it behind. You didn’t want it. I squeeze the material in my fist. I chuck it, as hard as possible, and it strikes the corner of the living room loudly. 

I don’t want it either.

**Author's Note:**

> i think i passed out writing this and yes this is short as fuck :)  
> -ilu(sim)


End file.
